A few weeks after my 25 year old brother died in the early 1990s, some of his friends volunteered to go to his small room in a share house on Brunswick Road and pack his things up. Because of his living arrangements – dead men don’t tend to pay rent  –  we didn’t have the luxury of waiting, and the task of further reducing the person that he had been to mere boxes of stuff was more than we, his family could stomach. So it fell to his friends to do it. Not long after, one of these friends wrote a short story about him. Published in Readers Digest, the fictional piece reflected the view that after a person dies, they become only what…